


Illusion

by seabright



Series: Bulletverse [2]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:39:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5780929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabright/pseuds/seabright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Just him, and what would never be.</i>  A coda to <a href="http://emptyaddress.livejournal.com/8654.html">a bullet down</a>, from Eddie's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illusion

**Author's Note:**

> So I was going through my fandom folders and realized that I had never posted this particular fic even though I wrote it last summer. My style has definitely changed somewhat since that time but I still find this acceptable enough to post. :) It's a bit PWP-ish and a little heavy on the angst. Not sure if it's absolutely necessary to read the original piece (beyond realizing that it's a modern AU) but it would definitely place it in better context!

He’s forgotten her name—maybe it starts with an M and drags out in long syllables that his alcohol-addled tongue can’t pronounce properly like Madeline or Matilda, but it’s not like he’s actually saying much anyway with his lips on her neck, tasting the vibrations of the low whine caught in her throat. He drags her closer by her beltloops, catches her breathless giggles in a kiss and she threads her hands into his hair, pressing against him and rubbing her leg slowly against him and Eddie—

He can’t fucking do this.

He breaks away and she moves with him, playfully nuzzling against his jaw and he says, “Fuck.”

“We can if you want,” she purrs back at him, drawing a single finger along the curve of his neck and he just—can’t be here. His head is swimming and he feels vaguely nauseous—but behind all of that is a looming sense of guilt and frustration, something beyond his control altogether. It makes his stomach twist and it makes him want to lean over and vomit—it has a vicelike grip on his mind and he’s struggled against it, hated it, hated himself for it—but it never fucking leaves.

“I forgot,” Eddie says and the words slur together, “I gotta go.” It’s not even a semblance of an excuse and she must think so too because her face goes all sharp and she’s not smiling any more. He manages to walk away from her without stumbling and Jesus Christ he’s fucking drunk—can’t remember the last time he had drank this much, can’t remember the last time he had let himself get out of control like this.

Someone hails a taxi for him and he isn’t entirely sure how he managed to rattle off the right address—but he finds himself trying to fit the key into the lock of his apartment door at least three times before it finally slides into place and he’s able to turn it. When he shuts the door behind him, he leans against it and stares into the darkness of his apartment and suddenly he feels an inexplicable sorrow drop onto his shoulders like a physical weight, a physical sense of loneliness invade his personal space like a sudden chill.

He had his chance tonight and he couldn’t do it. He steadies himself and gropes around for the light before managing to turn it on. She had been more than willing and if he wanted to bring her back or follow her home, she would have let him.

But he knows—he fucking _knows_ —from experience that no matter if he had said yes or if he had said no, it wouldn’t have made a goddamn difference. He knows that this fucking stranglehold that this loneliness has over him—it’s a fucking permanent feature of his life and he’s long gotten used to it, pushed it deep inside himself and built walls around it, only giving it momentary notice when rare lapses in his composure take a sledgehammer to its cage. And it’s one of these lapses that he’s indulging now, this rare mood of utter selfishness that let him drink beyond his normal limits—

—He tries not to think. About blue eyes and kind smiles and a warm hand on his shoulder. Because if he does, he will be a lost cause.

Except then he already is—he’s already thinking about Andrew and it’s goddamn _always_ been Andrew for almost half a year and Eddie’s half going crazy with this fucking weakness, this stupid thing that he can’t get control of. Andrew is the most genuine person he’s met—real generosity and kindness and a fierce loyalty—and Eddie is betraying him every time—every single fucking time—when he thinks about dragging the other man forward, when he thinks about those lips, about pressing his hands to the bare skin of his stomach, his mouth to the softness of his inner thigh—

Eddie draws in a sharp breath and half lurches his way towards the bathroom. This isn’t—he shouldn’t be—fuck, he’s drunk. Drunk and contemplating impossible things, caught in this moment of weakness that keeps dragging him down. He’s turned down a night of company because—Jesus—he’s carrying a torch for a man he can’t touch and he’s been doing it so long—been in love for so long—that he can’t figure out how to do anything else.

It’s probably not a good idea to take a shower but the smell of her perfume lingers on his clothes and on his skin where she pressed up against him and he can’t stand it. He strips with some difficulty—and it takes him a moment to properly turn on the shower and then he’s bracing himself against the tiles, sagging against the wall as the warm water sluices over him. He doesn’t make any effort to reach for the shampoo, doesn’t reach for the soap—just stands with his forehead and palms against the tile, steadying his breathing. The water helps to clear his mind a tiny bit—except then—

He imagines the door opening. He imagines the soft sigh that Andrew might make, seeing him in this state—and the few footsteps that would take to the edge of the bathtub. He’d pull the shirt over his head, slip out of his pants and he’d step into the shower behind Eddie—he’d reach forward and run the tips of his fingertips over the curve of Eddie’s spine before he’d step forward and crowd Eddie against the tiles, pressing himself against Eddie’s back and steadying hands on his hips.

 _Eddie,_ he’d say all quiet in Eddie’s ear, plaintively like seeing Eddie hurt makes him ache too. He’d run his hands up Eddie’s sides soothingly, drop a kiss on the back of his neck.

Eddie closes his eyes. He wants this so bad that it hurts.

He fists his cock and he tries not to think about how he shouldn’t be doing this, how he shouldn’t be so fucking self indulgent, all the self control he doesn’t have—and he drags his hand down.

Andrew would run a hand along his arm, pull him away by the wrist—he’d replace Eddie’s hand with his own. He’d say, _let me,_ and crowd Eddie closer, lick hot open mouthed kisses right above his shoulderblades, and he’d tighten his hand to just the right amount of pressure and he’d pump slowly, press his erection into the crack of Eddie’s ass. And Eddie would arch into Andrew he’d—

—his breathing comes in short shallow gasps and the water makes his skin slick. He’s thrusting clumsily into the circle of his own hand and it’s by some fucking miracle that he hasn’t slipped yet. He leans heavily against the wall, the tiles cool against his fevered skin and—

—Andrew would lick at the shell of his ear, he’d take great pleasure in drawing out every moan from Eddie’s lips. He’d make Eddie beg—

—“Please,” Eddie hears himself whining and in that moment, he almost believes—

—and he’d grin into Eddie’s skin and quicken his pace, he’d press his hips tighter against Eddie’s ass, and his breath would come in huffs against Eddie’s cheek as he’d apply more pressure, more friction, and—

It starts white hot, uncurling around the base of his spine and it washes over him—burning pleasure through every nerve until it feels like he’s drowning in it. He rides it out, a last few weak thrusts—and it’s over—he can’t hold himself up any more. He slumps against the side of his shower, opening his eyes slightly to watch the spray of the shower wash his come down the drain.

He feels emptier than he did before. The water beats against the top of his head, dripping into his eyes and off the tip of his nose. It takes him a moment before he can muster the energy to turn it off. He sits and listens to the showerhead drip, drawing his legs up to his chest. He presses his forehead to his knees.

There is no one else in his apartment.

Just him, and what would never be.  



End file.
